Mytheamore
by MizJoely
Summary: A collection of Mythea one-shots and drabbles.
1. Cards on the Table

_fangirlhani asked: Mythea_

 _The prompt was card and this is mildly NSFW. My first Mythea fic, enjoy!_

* * *

"Gin."

Mycroft glared down at the offending cards his PA had just laid on the table. "Impossible," he muttered.

'Anthea' (she'd taken to using the false name she'd given John Watson upon their first meeting) gave him a smug grin. "I don't think that word means what you think it means," she said cheekily. "You know what to do, lover boy." She leaned back in her chair, folded one arm across her chest and twirled the index finger of her other hand in the air, all while wearing an air of amused expectation.

Mycroft Holmes, the power behind the British government, maker and breaker of public policy, starter and ender of wars, master chess player and, in his own modest opinion, smartest of the Holmes brothers, tried to stare her down. She was fifteen years his junior; she was also his employee (technically). He'd trained her, for God's sake.

Her amused smile never left her lips, just as her steady gaze never turned away from his.

As always when it came to their personal endeavors, Mycroft caved first.

"Fine," he groused, standing up to remove his last piece of clothing. "Next time you want to play strip anything, however, I get to choose the game."

She tilted her head to one side, clearly pretending to consider his request (demand, desperate plea). "Deal," she finally replied, licking her lips as she stood up and moved to stand in front of him. The kiss they shared – not to mention the alacrity with which she removed her own clothing now that she'd proven her skills at yet another card game – went a long, a _very_ long way, to appeasing his wounded pride.


	2. Idiot

_A T-rated prompt from travellerofmanylands (who is now knapp-shappeys) for a Mythea Christmas swap that I was incredibly late for:_ _Maybe a whole secret-agent type thing would be cool :)_

 _Dialogue prompts: "Shut up, I'm trying to think our way out and you're not helping" and "That was the worst attempt at sarcasm I've seen in my whole career". I'll leave the rest up to you. Thanks!_

* * *

"That was the worst attempt at sarcasm I've seen in my whole career."

Mycroft didn't bother responding to Anthea's comment, deciding that a disdainful silence was the best response. Of course that only made her chuckle, and he felt the back of his neck flushing at the sound. How had the blasted woman come to know him so well?

"Anyway, it seems fair to say that antagonizing the leader of a fanatical cult is probably _not_ the best way to go about getting them to release a prisoner. I could be wrong, but considering that we're now _also_ prisoners, mm, I'd say I was actually right."

Mycroft gritted his teeth. Anthea was deliberately going out of her way to do her very best Sherlock-the-annoying-git impersonation - and succeeding far, far too well. So well, in fact, that the next words out of his mouth were, "Shut up, I'm trying to think our way out and you're not helping!"

The frosty silence that met his ill-chosen exclamation could have flash-frozen any number of mastodonts, unchewed buttercups and all.

It was her fault; no one flustered the Iceman as well as his unflappable, invaluable (intelligent, beautiful, far too sexy for his own good) personal assistant.

If only she were interested in being more 'personal' than 'assistant'...

 _No! Wrong! Delete that thought immediately!_ He could practically see the warning lights in his brain as he tried to banish the ridiculous, sentimental thoughts he'd been fighting all too frequently. Ever since Sherlock's return from bringing down Moriarty's network...ever since that inane conversation about loneliness and friendship, he'd been practically drowning in inappropriate thoughts. Inappropriate for him, the Iceman. Antarctica wasn't just a code name, after all; it was a way of…

"Mycroft, you do know you're thinking too loudly, right?"

He gave Anthea a look of purest outrage, quickly modifying it to his more trademark disdain. "Considering our circumstances, my dear, I hardly feel.."

Shit. Shit. He hadn't actually just _said_ that, had he? Out loud? Surely she would take it for sarcasm? For annoyance? For...for…

"Oh for God's sake," he muttered, giving it up and turning to face her. She'd moved closer, was standing directly in front of him, matter of fact, arms folded across her chest and a knowing look in her eyes - along with an alluring combination of hope and wariness. Without a second thought - or rather, ignoring the crowd of second thoughts screaming inside his head - he placed his hands on her shoulders and said, "Don't ever tell Sherlock what an idiot I've been."

As he moved to kiss her, the door to their prison burst open, and in strode his younger brother as if summoned, wearing an insufferable grin as he practically bounced over to greet them. "Hello, brother dear, had enough alone time with your goldfi...er, your PA?" he asked, far too cheerily.

Mycroft scowled, Sherlock's smirk reached impossible proportions, and Anthea, bless her, merely tucked her arm through his and give it a light squeeze. "That'll do," she said mildly, and Sherlock actually stopped smirking and stepped back when she and Mycroft walked past him. "Mr. Aziz has been released?" she threw over her shoulder as they reached the door.

"Of course, John and Mary took care of that, he's all ready for debriefing or deprogramming or whatever it is you need to do to get him to answer your questions," Sherlock replied. Grumpily.

Good. Mycroft risked a quick smirk over his shoulder, but Sherlock made a kissy face - and a rather vulgar finger motion - and Mycroft turned back around. The view was much better if he just cut his eyes a bit to the left, meeting Anthea's gaze.

She waited until they were alone in the backseat of the chauffeured limousine and on their way back to HQ before allowing him to snog her silly.

After all, appearances needed to be kept up.


	3. Concept of the Lost Ones

_A/N: For my recent flash fic fest on tumblr, anonymous asked for mythea, title: Concept Of The Lost Ones. So everyone, here is my Peter Pan-inspired Mythea kid!lock AU, rated K. Enjoy!_

* * *

The concept was simple: bring unhappy, abandoned or neglected children - the lost ones of the world - to Neverland where they might live their lives in freedom and peace and friendship and (best of all) magic.

The problem, Mycroft discovered, was that not all children were made to live in peace. Anthea Darling was, for sure; the two of them could walk for hours, just holding hands and weaving flower garlands; swimming with the mermaids or engaging with the tribe of Pacific Islanders who'd somehow found their way to Neverland even before the pixies and other magical beings had.

Her younger brothers, however - and his own problematic younger siblings Sherlock and Eurus - were not content to just enjoy what Neverland had to offer. No, Sherlock now fancied himself a pirate, with Eurus and a boy named Victor Trevor as his first recruits. And of course John and Michael Darling thought that was more the life for them, and that new girl, Molly Hooper wanted to join the pirate crew… "Why can't they just be happy, Thea?" Mycroft complained as one by one a good half of the children he'd brought to Neverland went off to play pirates with his brother and sister. "Why do they have to change things?"

"I dunno," she said with a shrug. "But instead of fighting with them about it all the time for real…maybe we could make it a Game instead?"

Mycroft thought about it for a few minutes - or maybe an hour, since it was hard to judge time here - then decided it was the best idea he'd ever heard. He gave Anthea a shiny copper penny he'd been saving for just such an occasion. She blushed prettily as she tucked the kiss into the pocket of her pinafore. "So how do we make this game the best one ever?" Mycroft asked.

"Well," Anthea said with a big grin, "first we have to find a real, live pirate ship…"


	4. Swindlers With Strength

_For the flash fic fest on tumblr, anonymous asked for mythea with the title: swindlers with strength. Rated T for mention of prophylactics._

* * *

"Well, you can't fault their, erm, energy?" Anthea ventured after a few minutes.

Mycroft was still staring aghast at defiled desk in his private study. The one no one - not even his obnoxious brat of a baby brother - was supposed to be able to breach. Technically it was a panic room, but had seemed the most suitable option when he'd had his house designed and built. He'd even gone so far to ensure that the plans on record were falsified so the room didn't show. So how on earth…

"Sherlock," he muttered after a minute. "It has to be. No one else would have the desire, the need, the perseverance…"

"The strength?"

There was a definite hint of laughter behind her words. He wanted to glower at her, he really did, but when she tucked her arm through his and laid her head on his shoulder, all he could do was kiss the top of her head. "Strength or no strength, he swindled me out of my peace of mind," he muttered. "Which means it's time for me to do the same to him."

Anthea straightened up and looked at him in alarm. "You don't mean…"

His grin was positively evil as he replied, "Oh yes, time to bring in the big guns." He straightened his tie and sat behind his condom-bedecked desk. "Anthea, my darling, please ring Molly Hooper for me."


	5. Justice In My Dreams

_One more ficlet for the "give me a title and a pairing" flash fic challenge I ran on tumblr. This one is rated K+, from an anon. Enjoy this mythea fic with a dash of sherlolly._

* * *

If there was any justice in the world - and not just in her dreams - Mycroft Holmes would have done more than just shake her hand and tell her he was glad she was safe when he and Sherlock arrived to rescue her and Molly Hooper from their kidnappers.

Molly, Anthea noted enviously, got the greeting both women wanted from the men they loved: Sherlock swooped in, took her in his arms, and kissed her senseless after he'd ascertained that she was unharmed.

No such luck for the Iceman's PA.

Anthea's gloomy thoughts were, naturally, not translated to her exterior: she remained cool, unruffled, seemingly disinterested in everything going on around her, tapping away at her newly-restored blackberry while MI-5 agents busied themselves with the remnants of the terror cell that had abducted her and Molly from the St. Bart's morgue. She'd been there to drop off a file for Mycroft - of course! - and in spite of her training had been unable to subdue the six abductors when they stormed into the room. Molly had acquitted herself very well, swinging her bone saw like a champion, even if she'd never actually connected with any of the attackers. Likely because she still wasn't quite ready to kill someone even with her own life threatened.

Sherlock, of course, had already lectured her on her so-called squeamishness. In fact, he'd not let go of her since he, Mycroft, John Watson and the twelve agents had burst into the terrorist's hideout two hours ago. Not even when the medical team was checking her over.

Mycroft hadn't even looked her way when her own bruises and cuts were examined and cleansed. That stung more than the antiseptic wipes.

"Sir, I'll have a full report for you by tomorrow morning," she said as she finally broke the silence between them. She'd waited until most of the activity had died down, Sherlock sweeping Molly away with him, John Watson tagging along in their footsteps - and smirking as if he'd been the one to matchmake them into that epic snog. She knew the many texts he'd been furtively sending had been to his wife, still not quite ready for an extraction mission, not so soon after having given birth to Rosie.

"Excellent," was all Mycroft responded.

Anthea gave an inward sigh at his cool response. What else had she expected? "So I'll be heading home, then," she said, starting to move away from him, head back down to her blackberry, her only defense against his indifference…then gasped as his hand shot out and closed around her wrist. "Sir?"

The expression on his face remained cold, but she could feel the slight tremble in his hand. "Stay," he said softly. "Let me see you safely home. Please."

He turned his head, just the slightest bit, and she felt her calm shell begin to crumble at the expression in his eyes.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and stood quietly by his side. When he slid his hand down to hers, she intertwined their fingers without needing further prompting.

The Iceman, it seemed, had finally melted.


	6. Distracting Kisses

_anonymous on tumblr asked: kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing. For mythea please, thanks!_

 _Rated T, a teensy bit of sherlolly, and I hope you all enjoy :)_

* * *

"I am trying to work here, you know."

"Mm, yes, I know." Another kiss, this one to the tip of the left ear. The previous one had been to the tip of the right ear, the one before that just below said ear and the one before that on the top of the left shoulder.

"And you're, mmmm, distrating me."

"That is the plan, yes." This kiss included a bit of a nibble to the lobe of the left ear, a particularly sensitive spot.

With a soft sigh of capitulation, Anthea tilted her head up and allowed her husband's next kiss to land on her lips. "Darling," he murmured when the kiss ended, "this report really can wait…but this-" he waved the thermometer with which he'd been compulsively checking her temperature for the past week, "cannot."

She smiled and allowed him to pull her to her feet. "Yes, fine," she said with mock reluctance. "I'll let you try to knock me up one last time today - but if it doesn't take this month, then the bet with your brother about beating him and Molly to the punch is off, all right?"

He kissed her again as he lead her to their bedroom, but she was certain his mumbled response was more on the lines of 'the hell it is' than the 'yes of course my dear' he later claimed it to be.


End file.
